


More than the World Can Contain

by coffeejunkii



Series: Birds and Bridges [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anniversary, Clint and Natasha: BFFs, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, feelings are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 10:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16135061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeejunkii/pseuds/coffeejunkii
Summary: Clint and Phil celebrate their fifth anniversary and make decisions about their future together.





	More than the World Can Contain

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Rurounihime for betaing!
> 
> Title is from Sufjan Steven's "John My Beloved." The full line is, "I love you more than the world can contain" (and the fic is much happier than that song!).
> 
> All photos linked in the story were taken by me.

Clint wakes to the gray light of dawn and an emptiness next to him. He listens to sounds from the bathroom, but only picks up the song of an eager robin outside. Odd. It’s not like Phil to leave this early without telling Clint. Sitting up, he scans the room below. 

Phil is still there, standing at the kitchen counter with one arm deep in their coffee maker. 

Clint frowns. As he climbs down the ladder from the platform bed, Phil turns around. “Did I wake you? I tried to be quiet.”

“Dunno. Don’t think so.” Clint crosses the room. “What’re you doing?” He runs a hand down Phil’s back. Deep-cleaning appliances at the crack of dawn isn’t like him.

Phil extracts his hand from the bowels of the coffee machine, rinses the sponge, and sets it aside. “Couldn’t sleep.” He wipes his palms on his pajama pants. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again and didn’t want to wake you tossing and turning. It’s not the biggest bed. I got a glass of water and noticed that the side of the coffeemaker looked a little grimy and next thing I know…” He gestures at various parts of the machine—filter, carafe, lids—all neatly lined up to dry on paper towels.

“Everything okay?” 

Phil pushes two fingers under his glasses to rub across his eyes. “It’s stupid.”

Clint steps closer. Mostly so it’s easy to reach for Phil should he need it, but also to create a little bubble, a safety zone where it’s just them and the rest of the world seems far away. “I’m sure it’s not.”

“I’ve been thinking about our anniversary.”

It’s been on Clint’s mind as well because holy shit, five years. It’s the longest relationship Clint’s ever had, and it simultaneously seems like Phil has always been in his life and like it hasn’t been that long since they met. “Yeah?”

“I’ve been trying to think of something we could do to celebrate, and—“

“You know we don’t need to anything special, right?” Honestly, a day in bed and some pizza for dinner sounds like the best anniversary Clint can imagine. No need for Phil to twist himself into knots over creating some sort of special day.

“I know. But…” Phil takes Clint’s left hand. His thumb traces over the ring that has become so second nature that Clint doesn’t even realize it’s there anymore. “I want to celebrate it. Us. It’s—it’s important to me. To mark how far we—I—have come since we met.”

Oh.

Clint squeezes Phil’s hand. He feels silly now for not having thought of how much this anniversary might mean. Anniversaries are part of everything that’s been foreign to Clint for most of his life, like stable relationships and family and all the other milestones of a normal life. But that doesn’t mean Clint doesn’t recognize why Phil wants to make this a special occasion. And really, if he thinks about it, it is pretty fucking amazing that they’re still together, five years later, that they’ve fit their lives together, have each other’s backs. Not to mention that Clint still thinks Phil is the hottest guy he’s ever been with.

“But if you don’t want to, then…” Phil starts with some hesitation.

“No, I do, sorry. Got a little lost in my own head. Do you have anything in mind?”

“Nothing. Hence this.” He nods at the deconstructed coffeemaker.

“As long as it doesn’t involve a suit and tiny forks, I’m game for pretty much anything.”

That gets a smile out of Phil. “Got it. Not that I would ever force tiny forks on you.”

Tony and Steve’s wedding had involved a whole fleet of tiny forks, not to mention a tux. While it had been uncomfortable, it was also worth it to see Phil dressed up and swinging him around the dancefloor.

“C’mon.” Clint tugs on Phil’s hand. “Let’s go back to bed. We both have at least an hour until the alarm goes off.”

As they settle down, Phil turns away from Clint instead of facing him like they usually do when they fall asleep. A brief ache twists through Clint; years ago, he would have read that as a dismissal, but he knows it’s the opposite. It’s Phil asking to be held, and he trusts Clint to know that.

Clint folds himself around Phil, who lets out a soft sigh. “Don’t worry about this so much, okay?”

“I’ll try. I just want it to be right.”

“It will be.” Clint is convinced of that.

**

The next Monday, they are running late getting from Queens to Manhattan because of subway cancelations, diversions, and construction work. There are so many schedule change announcements plastered to the board on the track that Clint cannot process what they’re trying to tell him. 

A packed train finally shows up fifteen minutes later. Phil gets grumpier the longer the ride takes and the more they get jostled by commuters and students. Clint tries to lighten the mood, but falls silent after Phil can only muster one-word responses.

There isn’t even a goodbye kiss when Phil hurries across the track to catch the local downtown train.

It leaves Clint feeling hollow most of the day. It’s not a big deal, he tells himself, but he can’t shake it. They always make time for that kiss.

He takes a walk through the Ramble after lunch, half to check up on the improvement projects and half to clear his head. While the construction is mostly on track, his thoughts are not. He wonders if the commute between their two homes is finally getting to Phil. Maybe he is tired of splitting his life between Manhattan and Queens. They talked about moving into a new place together a few years ago, but that fell by the wayside, and Clint thought they’d settled into their routine of weekdays spent at the studio in the East Village and weekends and holidays in the bigger apartment out in Queens.

Maybe they should start that conversation again. Moving in together. Shouldn’t they have one place together considering they’ve been together for five years? Isn’t that something they should be doing? A step you take if you are serious about spending the rest of your life with someone?

Clint doesn’t particularly want to bring this up, though. He doesn’t want Phil to think he’s unhappy with their life. And while Clint believes that Phil is in this for the long haul as much as he is, there’s still that small voice sometimes that asks what if. What if they can’t make this work. What if Phil left. What if, what if, what if.

Clint stops walking and takes a deep breath. He’s not going there. He pushes the doubts away and focuses on his surroundings instead. There was an RBB earlier this week about a Purple Martin; perhaps Clint is in luck.

**

Determined to shake off his morose mood, Clint makes actual food for dinner instead of hoping they can cobble something together from whatever’s in the fridge. It’s only chicken and broccoli stir-fry, nothing fancy, but hopefully it can turn this day around.

Clint has just set the rice to boil when Phil’s keys jingle in the door. He heads straight to Clint instead of going through his routine of changing into comfortable clothes and taking his contacts out. “You made dinner.”

There’s a soft sadness in Phil’s voice. Clint turns down the heat on the stir-fry so he can give his full attention to Phil. The food’s basically ready anyway. “I thought it might be nice since this morning was kinda…not so great.”

Phil hunches his shoulders. “About that. I was an asshole this morning and I’m sorry about that.”

Clint thinks about dismissing it, but the rushed way in which Phil left him has been on his mind all day. He nods, unsure what to say.

“Can I make it up to you now?”

“Please.”

Phil slides a hand around the back of Clint’s neck and pulls him in. It’s the sweetest kiss, bordering on shy. It tears through Clint. He presses closer, slides both arms around Phil’s waist, and tips the kiss over into something deeper.

Phil lets out a pleased hum, and then nothing matters for a while. 

They stop before things get out of hand. Clint doesn’t mind; he knows they can pick this up later. No need to let the rice burn. Maybe that’s also an outcome of being together for five years. While Clint still wants Phil as much as he did when they first met, he feels less urgent about it. They have time: later, in bed, or maybe in the shower tomorrow morning, or on the couch in two days, or all those times.

Clint nuzzles Phil’s cheek. “Get changed and I’ll set out some plates.”

Phil holds on to him for another moment, then wanders over to their closet.

Both of them slot back into their after-work routine and they don’t talk again until they’re halfway through dinner. 

“I have an idea for our anniversary.” Phil says. “Have you ever been to The Cloisters?”

“Nope.”

“Not even when you lived in Inwood?”

Clint wants to point out that fancy museums with medieval art were the last thing on his mind during that time, but he just shakes his head.

“Would you like to go? It’s not as boring as it may sound, and there’s a nice park around it.”

Fort Tryon Park, one of a few Manhattan parks Clint has never been to. Besides, Clint has come to enjoy going to museums because he loves watching Phil look at art. Phil gets completely absorbed and points out details and knows the most random things, like that one time at the Met when Phil got carried away and talked about basket weaving in Mesopotamia for ten minutes. “I’d love to.”

“Are you sure? We can also—“

“I’m sure. How about next Thursday? If we can both get the day off? It’ll be less crowded than on the weekend.”

Phil’s eyes light up. “That should be fine. I have overtime I need to use up.”

Later that night, Clint decides against playing games on this phone and curls into Phil’s side instead. The cool nights are on their way out, and before too long, it’ll be too hot for this. “Read to me?”

They both know Clint is going to doze off, and that it’s more about Phil’s voice than whatever the book is about, but Phil is happy to indulge him. “This is from _Broadway: A History of New York City in Thirteen Miles_. _On Friday, October 14, 1842, the waters of the Croton flowed unimpeded beneath the city for the first time, and New Yorkers devoted themselves to a day of celebration, just as they had when the Eerie Canal opened in 1825_ …”

**

The week continues along familiar patterns, but the whole moving-in-together thing stubbornly lingers in Clint’s mind. He asks Natasha to have lunch with him on Wednesday. Hopefully she can help him sort through this.

It’s an overcast day, and Nat suggests ramen, which always means [Totto Ramen](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/43183985370/sizes/l), and that also means showing up fifteen minutes before they open for lunch so they can add their names to the list. They are by no means the first, but they get the seventh spot on the list, and are seated with the first lunch wave. 

They sit at the counter. Steaming [bowls of soup](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/44946882482/sizes/l) appear minutes later. Clint loses himself in the rich broth and soft-boiled eggs until Natasha shifts in her seat.

“So, what’s on your mind?” she asks.

Clint swirls his noodles around with his chopsticks. “How do you like living with Maria? Is it what you thought it would be?” Natasha and Maria have been living together for almost a year now.

Nat shoots him a surprised glance. “Yes and no. I knew it would take a while to figure it out, and there were a few bumps in the road, but we worked it out. Having someone around 24/7 was less overwhelming than I expected.”

Nat turned down Maria’s proposal to move in together about three times, and Clint still marvels that she said yes considering how fiercely protective she is of her independence. He also knows that she kept paying rent on her loft for about six months after she moved into Maria’s condo. 

“I’ve been wondering about Phil and me. Sometimes it seems like he’s getting tired of splitting our time between two places, and, I don’t know, it seems like something we should be doing?”

“’Should be doing’?” Natasha echoes.

“Well, you know, like…” Clint takes a bite of pork. “Responsible adults in a long-term relationship.”

Natasha gives him a look.

Clint sighs. Neither of them have ever cared much about those kinds of expectations. But it’s harder to hold onto that belief when Nat’s life seems to align with them much more than before. Clint half-expects her to text him one day to tell him that she and Maria eloped. “Do you ever miss your loft?” 

It was the first place Nat could afford on her own, the first place she ever considered home, and she held into to it through two waves of gentrification when she almost got priced out of it.

She remains silent for a long time. Clint shovels more pork into his mouth, surveying the vast [pots of broth](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/43183991130/sizes/l) and colanders of noodles in the open kitchen in front of him. 

Finally, Nat says, “Of course I miss it. How could I not? But moving in with Maria was worth it. The back-and-forth was hard.” She pauses and Clint flashes to that miserable February two years ago when she and Maria took a break. “Too hard. But that doesn’t mean you and Phil can’t make it work. And you have had two homes for a long time. Has he said anything?”

“It’s just a feeling. The subway’s gotten so bad and it makes the commute a pain in the ass.”

“You realize that rents being what they are, you’d probably have that commute every day if you got a place with Phil?”

“Ugh.” She’s right. They’d probably have to look in the outer boroughs. 

“You could always move to Williamsburg now that rents are falling because they’re closing down the L for a year and a half.”

“No way.” Clint knows she’s teasing, but suggesting Williamsburg is almost offensive.

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

Clint pushes the dregs of his broth around. “I know.” But he doesn’t want to talk to Phil; then it might become A Thing, and what if they both think the other wants to make that change, and they both end up hating wherever they move?

Natasha squeezes his arm. “Whatever spiraling thoughts you have, stop them.”

Clint looks up at her. 

“Phil loves you,” Nat says, deep conviction driving every word. “He’ll listen. He’ll tell you what he wants, and then you’ll make a decision. Together.”

She’s right. Clint’s chest feels looser and he takes a deep breath. “It’ll be okay.”

Nat’s expression brightens. “Damn right it will be.”

**

The forecast for Thursday is hot and humid, so they get an early start. Or try to, at least. It’s past eleven when they finally head out. Weekday [bagels](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/31122997868/sizes/c/) at Murray’s are a treat. Bagels are usually a Saturday morning thing for them, picked out the day before on their way to Queens. Crowding around one of the small tables reminds Clint of the times a decade ago when he and Natasha would scrape together some change to split a cinnamon raisin bagel.

Phil’s fingers brush along the back of his hand. “You still with me?”

“Just thinking about how often I’ve been here. Nat and I used to come here together. Seems like forever ago, you know? Like a different life.” A frown begins to build on Phil’s face, which is unacceptable on what’s supposed to be a happy, fun day for them. Clint hastens to add, “Don’t mind me. Life’s much better for me and Nat now.”

“For me, too.” 

Clint tangles their fingers together. Memories of their first meeting on the bridge wash over him. He’s infinitely glad that he took the chance of walking over to Phil that day, of going on a date with him, of taking that leap of faith to see where things might go.

Phil’s expression suggests that his mind is wandering back in time, too.

“We’re doing a spectacular job of having a good time,” Clint says to break them out of their thoughts.

“The best.” Phil’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “But in all seriousness, I’m already having a very nice morning.”

“You’re an easy date,” Clint teases.

“I’m always easy for you.” Phil has the audacity to wink at him.

Clint has literal goosebumps from that one sentence. “Okay, time to leave. You can’t just—you’re impossible.”

Phil laughs, free and easy, and it sets the day back on track. 

They take the A from 14th and 8th to the southernmost edge of Fort Tryon Park at 190th street. The entrance to the park is right across from the subway station and Clint is excited to take in how the paths are set out, what plants populate the flower beds, which birds he can hear in the trees. They get lost on their way because the signage leaves much to be desired. Clint makes a mental note about that for the next all-staff Parks meeting.

They find The Cloisters eventually, red brick walls rising upward from a small hill. The coolness inside the thick walls is welcome after the already heated air outside. Phil gets the tickets and they peel off the stickers that signal they’ve paid the fees. Clint still misses the metal buttons the Met used to give out; he has a whole collection pinned to his wall at work.

Clint lets Phil take the lead. There’s a special [exhibit](https://metmuseum.org/exhibitions/listings/2018/heavenly-bodies) that matches fashion with religion, which makes everything on display much more interesting. Clint’s never been religious, but it’s intriguing to see others being moved enough by their beliefs to incorporate symbols and rituals from the distant past into contemporary clothing.

One room stops Clint in his tracks. It looks like the altar room in a church, but instead of an altar there is a [single figure](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/44995347491/sizes/l) clothed in white. It’s bathed in a beam of light, which seems to come from a circle of slim windows, but a closer look reveals a spotlight in the ceiling. There’s something about the arrangement—the stark white gown, the light spilling over it in a wide circle, the dim light in the rest of the room—that Clint cannot look away from. He senses other people moving past him, including Phil, who reads through the information about what’s on display.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Phil says in a hushed voice.

Clint moves closer until their arms bump. He nods, unsure of how to wrap his reaction into words.

They linger for a few more minutes before moving on. They see more intricate and dazzling [dresses](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/44084326535/sizes/l) as they go, but none have the same impact on Clint as that white gown.

They take a break in one of the courtyard [gardens](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/44995363601/sizes/l). It’s lush and in full bloom and Clint loves it at first sight. There’s a fountain in the middle. Birds swoop in to settle on the spouts for sips of water, and a light breeze sweeps through flowers and bushes. 

Clint takes Phil’s hand. “Let’s sit for a while.” There’s a café set up in one of the archways surrounding the garden. They get iced coffees and settle at a small table in the shade. Clint looks up at the blue sky stretching above the tiled roof and wonders if this is what Europe is like. Italy, maybe. Not that he’s ever been there, but he has seen pictures. Maybe he could go with Phil when they make it to ten years.

He nudges Phil’s ankle. “Happy anniversary.”

Phil sends him a bright smile. “Happy anniversary to you as well.”

They fall silent again, but Clint keeps stealing glances at Phil, who looks content and at ease. It makes Clint’s heart sing.

After an hour of letting the world move around them, they head back inside. They stop by the famous unicorn tapestry that Clint recognizes from one of Phil’s fridge magnets. The tapestry is much larger than Clint imagined and it’s only one in a whole series about a unicorn hunt. The nearby [dress](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/44084298145/sizes/l) looks like a fluffy cloud. The outline of a unicorn head is stitched onto to it in delicate gold thread. Clint isn’t sure if anyone would ever wear it, and for what occasion, but he appreciates the resonance between the dress and the tapestries.

They move through more rooms filled with art and furniture and dresses. Phil stops to read signs and occasionally hums in appreciation at patterns and symbols while Clint increasingly looks at the architecture and the views from the windows. 

They stop at an [alcove](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/44276410744/sizes/l) framed by an ornately carved wooden door. The door is ajar and allows a look inside, revealing a dark red dress with a black pattern that swoops across the fabric. A rope cordons off the space lest someone tries to get a closer look. 

It gives Clint an idea. A really bad idea, but also a very fun one. It’s late in the day, and the museum is less crowded. No one’s come down the hallway in the last minutes.

“Hey, remember the first time we went to the Met?”

Phil looks up from reading the sign. “Of course.”

Clint moves closer. He runs a finger along the waistband of Phil’s jeans, pleased at the resulting intake of breath. “Remember the room with the wooden ceiling?” Clint tips his head toward the alcove. “Kinda reminds me of that.”

Phil’s eyes follow Clint’s line of sight. “No.”

“Just for a minute. We’re pretty much all alone in here.”

Phil looks around. “They probably have sensors in there.”

Clint sticks his hand past the rope and waves it around. “Nope.”

Phil looks at him with exasperation, but there’s also something calculating in his eyes.

“C’mon.” Clint sneaks his thumb under Phil’s shirt. Phil shivers, then looks up and down the hallway again. Still no sight of anyone. 

“Fine.” Phil steps across the rope. “But if we’re banned from the Met, it’s entirely on you.”

Clint follows. “Oh, we won’t be.”

They maneuver around the mannequin in the red dress and move to the back of small space. The air is dusty and smells of old wood. Clint leans back against polished beams and pulls Phil against him.

“The things you make me do,” Phil murmurs before his mouth is on Clint’s neck.

“Oh shit.” That’s one of his most sensitive spots. He lets his head fall back and bites his tongue as Phil does his absolute best to wreck him in three minutes flat. “Unfair,” Clint bites out.

Phil chuckles against his ear. “You started it.” He kisses Clint in the filthiest way, and Clint balls his hand into a fist because all these feelings have to go somewhere and he can’t moan the house down the way he would at home.

Phil’s hand slides into the small of Clint’s back, under his T-shirt, and presses his palm against Clint’s skin while also slotting his hips against Clint’s just so. It’s completely disarming, so good and so terrible at the same time. Clint is getting hard, and he can’t stop thinking about Phil going to his knees and blowing him right next to this probably exorbitantly expensive dress.

“Oh, and the Galliano is just down there,” a woman’s voice comes floating down the hall.

Clint freezes. Phil pulls away a fraction, rapid puffs of breath breaking against Clint’s cheek. Phil’s hips twitch against Clint, helpless and uncontrollable, and all Clint can do is reel Phil in even closer.

“Yes, I read that they had a devil of a time convincing Dior to loan the dress,” A second woman’s voice joins the first. “I’ve been dying to see it.”

Heels click closer.

They should get a hold of themselves considering these two women are about the step in front of the alcove, and while the lighting inside is dim, Clint isn’t sure how well it conceals two grown men.

And yet all Clint does is shift enough to feel how hard Phil is. Clint wants to stick his hand down Phil’s jeans and tease him more, maybe rub his palm over the head until precome slides down his fingers and he can get Phil off in three short strokes. Clint presses his lips together and swallows down a whimper.

“Gosh, look how beautiful it is!” 

“Magnificent. But, Galliano, so not a surprise.”

“Of course, of course.”

“It says here that the embroidery includes a quote from Machiavelli’s _The Prince_. At one time, that was on the Catholic Church’s list of banned books. How very naughty.”

Phil’s head drops to Clint’s shoulder with a stifled laugh. Clint is tempted to pinch him, but Phil is so ticklish that he’d probably yip and give them away. 

The shutter of a cell phone camera clicks, and clicks again. “I wish I could get some more detail of that hem line. Maybe if I lean a little closer…”

“Oh, Mary-Beth, they probably have all kinds of sensors, better not risk it.”

“You’re right.” She sighs. “Just, so divine, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely.”

The two women fall silent, and Clint strains to hear if they have turned their attention elsewhere or are just that enraptured by this dress. The wood creaks behind his shoulders, and this time, both he and Phil hold their breaths.

“Did you hear that?”

“Just old wood expanding. It happens to my Chiffonier all the time.”

“That is a marvelous piece. I’m still a little jealous that you got your hands on it before it even went up for auction.”

“Well, you managed to snag the Davenport, so we are more than even.”

Both laugh politely, and Clint rolls his eyes.

“Shall we move on? I believe there are some Versace dresses in the chapel that we haven’t seen yet.”

“Lead the way.”

Oh, thank fucking god. 

Once silence has settled over the room again, Phil takes a deep breath. “I was sure they’d see us.”

Clint slumps against the wall. Which creaks loudly. “They were too busy ogling that dress.”

“It is a gorgeous dress.”

“Ugh, stop. I was waiting for them to run out of adjectives.” 

“We should probably get out of here before someone else shows up.”

“In a minute.” Clint and his dick are definitely not ready for polite company yet. “If these women hadn’t shown up, my pants may have ended up as a lost cause.”

Phil brushes his lips over Clint’s jaw. “You were the one who wanted to make out in a dark corner.”

“Not. Helping.”

Phil hums and lingers close, almost close enough for another kiss, and it’s infuriating. Clint surges to capture Phil’s mouth. Two can play this game. He moves his hand down from Phil’s side to the front of his jeans, slowly enough the Phil can get idea of what he’s about to do. Clint expects Phil to stop him, but instead Phil slips his tongue into Clint’s mouth. There’s no way Clint can hold back that moan. It vibrates down his throat into his chest. All Clint wants is more: more of Phil pressed against him, more of the way Phil’s kissing him. Just more. His fingers find the hard edge of Phil’s cock, and he kneads and presses until Phil pulls away all of a sudden, sucking shuddering breaths into his lungs. Clint drops his hands.

They look at each other; Phil’s flushed cheeks leave no doubt about what they’ve been up to.

“Fuck.” Phil shakes his head. “I can’t believe I almost came in the middle of a museum display.”

“First time for everything?”

Phil laughs. “I’m too old for that.”

“Nah.” Clint takes Phil’s hand. “You okay?” He wants to make sure he didn’t push things too far.

“No regrets.” Phil knows him too well. 

They wait a little longer before emerging from the alcove. Just as they have stepped back across the rope, a group of people rounds the corner. Phil and Clint beat a hasty retreat, stifling their laughter.

They discover another courtyard [garden](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/30059428957/sizes/l). It’s bigger than the first. There are small trees and beds of wild flowers and lilies. The sun slants across archways that offer ledges wide enough to sit on. Clint tugs Phil down and stretches out his legs. The stones are pleasantly warm against his skin. He tilts his head up to feel the sun and leans into Phil’s side. Fingers slip into Clint’s hand. He can’t hold back a smile because this? This is perfect.

They sit long enough that Clint feels drowsy. It takes him a moment to surface when Phil speaks to him. “Hmmmm?”

“I asked if you’d mind me taking a look at the last bits of the exhibit?”

Clint follows Phil’s line of sight to the row of glass cases featuring stark brown and black clothes on the other side of the courtyard. “Nope. I’ll be right here.”

“I won’t be too long,” Phil says with a squeeze to Clint’s hand.

Clint’s mind drifts again while Phil is gone, skipping between dinner possibilities, an email he owes Bruce, the potential subway fuckery they may encounter on their way back downtown, the rhubarb in the fridge they need to use up, and the over/under on them having sex later or just collapsing like the old people they are.

Before too long, Phil appears again. “Ready to move on? We can wander through the park on the way back to the subway.”

Clint stands and stretches his arms above his head. “Let’s go.” It doesn’t escape his attention that Phil’s eyes track the hem of his shirt as it rides up the slightest bit. Sex later is a definite possibility.

They amble through the park, mostly following the path that looks out over the Hudson. They pass dogs and kids and teens enjoying a taste of early summer. Eventually hunger steers them toward the subway, which shows up within an acceptable amount of time. They switch to the local train at 125th Street and get off at 96th to get sandwiches at Birch Coffee. Walking through Central Park takes longer, but is a far preferable way to get to the downtown train. Anything to avoid the doom and gloom of the Times Square shuttle.

The sun starts to set as they enter the park. Long beams of golden light stretch down the path. They’ve done this walk enough times that they know where to turn for the fastest way across. They weave along the southern edge of the reservoir, dirt and gravel softly crunching under their feet. Clint pauses at the halfway point and turns back to look over the [silhouette](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53719810@N00/44276455234/sizes/l) of Central Park West. Orange-pink clouds reflect on the calm surface of the water.

He’s stood there many times before, but the view always entrances him. The trees that circle the reservoir still carry the fresh green leaves of late spring, which will soon turn into the deep green of summer, and then the orange and reds of fall. The bare branches of winter hold their own kind of beauty, especially when dusted with snow.

Phil runs a hand down Clint’s back to his hip and pulls him against his side. “It’s been a really nice day.”

Clint hums in assent.

“Not too much medieval art?”

It’s so like Phil to ask that. To make sure that Clint had a good time. He presses a kiss to Phil’s temple. “Nope. I’m glad we went.” Sure, the art went a little over his head, but some of it was fascinating, and the gardens were stunning, and most importantly, he got to spend the whole day with Phil, to celebrate that they got this far, against quite a few odds.

Phil smiles and ducks his head. “Good.”

Clint should probably stick to enjoying the moment, but the words are out of his mouth before he can finish contemplating whether it’s a good idea to bring this up right now. “Remember a few years ago, we talked about moving in together?”

“Have we not done that? I do believe we live together.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, find one place together.”

Phil turns until he can face Clint. “Is that something you want?”

“No, I—that’s not—I wanted to know if you wanted that.” 

“What makes you think that I would want that?” Phil’s voice is calm and curious, and yet Clint wonders if this conversation is about to ruin the day.

“Because….you complain about the commute a lot, and I thought….” It all sounds so stupid now that he says it out loud. 

“I complain because the subway has gone to shit.”

That’s certainly true. “I guess I…”

“What?” The question is soft, encouraging.

“I just want you to be happy.” With how their life is going, and all the little quirks that come with that.

Phil looks at him and pulls Clint into a tight hug. “I am. Do you know how happy you make me?” His voice breaks on those last words.

If it’s anything close to how much happiness Phil has brought into Clint’s life, a lot. Like, a lot a lot. He nods into Phil’s shoulder.

Phil lets go of him again. “Do you want us to look for a place together?”

“No,” Clint says immediately. “I like the way things are. Even if it’s a little odd.”

“Odd works for us.”

“It does.”

Phil smiles at him with much fondness. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“No need to say sorry. I always want you to share what’s on your mind.”

“I know.” Just because he can, Clint pulls Phil into his arms for another quick hug. “Let’s go home.”

**

The walk from Astor Place to their building in the East Village isn’t very long, but the lingering heat and humidity have them both drenched by the time they make it to their top-floor apartment. The air inside is soupy.

Clint toes off his sneakers and strips off his T-shirt and shorts as he walks across the room to turn on the A/C unit in the window. He shivers when the cool air hits him.

Phil comes up behind him. “Your ass looks amazing in these briefs.” He kisses the top of Clint’s shoulder.

“It always looks amazing.” He leans back against Phil, who still has all his clothes on.

“Particularly amazing, then.”

Phil keeps mouthing along the edge of Clint’s shoulder to his neck, and his hand swipes over Clint’s chest, thumbing across his nipples. This is good, very good. As Phil’s hand wanders lower, he asks, “Want to finish what we started earlier?”

“Fuck yes.”

Phil’s fingers slip into Clint’s briefs to curl around his soft dick. Clint exhales and lets his eyes close. Phil’s languid strokes are just right to set off some sparks low in Clint’s gut, but not intense enough to let things get out of hand too quickly. Just as Clint’s breathing quickens, Phil stops. Clint whines.

“Sorry, but shower first, maybe? I feel gross.”

“But we’d just get sweaty and gross again.”

“That’s the good kind. This kind of sweaty and gross is just…unpleasant.” Phil sounds determined. 

“Only if I can join you.”

“That goes without saying.”

Clint relents. When they step under the spray, he has to admit that the lukewarm water feels good. It’s even better when Phil’s soapy hands make their way across his body. All his touches are firm yet gentle, aiming to clean rather than to tease, but it’s still Phil, so Clint’s buzz lingers. He returns the favor, keeping his touches perfunctory as well, but he thinks about where to put his mouth and tongue later.

Phil takes forever to towel off. Clint crowds against him and kisses him, showing Phil exactly how much he wants him. “You’re dry enough. Come on.” 

The fact that Phil drops the towel on the floor instead of hanging it up tells Clint everything. They hurry across the room, up the ladder, and fall into bed.

Clint gently pushes Phil on his back and straddles his thighs. Phil reaches for him, but Clint wiggles out of his grasp with a rushed, “Wait,” and fumbles the lube out of the compartment in the headboard. 

Phil looks at him, eyes already blown, his hands moving up Clint’s side and down to his knees. 

Clint slicks up his hand and reaches for Phil’s cock, which is firming up but nowhere near hard. “I’ma make this so good for you.”

Phil licks his lips, but whatever he was going to say devolves into a groan as Clint twists his hand. 

Clint drops down to an elbow next to Phil’s head, half-leaning over him, and whispers, “So good.”

Phil’s fingers wind into Clint’s hair to pull him into a brief sloppy kiss. “God, your hands.”

A pleasant flutter moves through Clint and he looks down their bodies to watch as Phil’s cock fills, skin stretching and growing warm under Clint’s touch. His own dick is starting to feel heavy and slick, and he can’t keep his hips still, seeking friction.

“Move over a little,” Phil says, pressing his palm against Clint’s side until he’s more centered.

The head of Clint’s dick brushes up against Phil’s cock, and the sensation is so blinding that Clint feels like his eyes are rolling back into his head. He immediately chases after a repeat, rolling his hips again. “Fuck, let’s just…” He cups his hand over both him and Phil, who is panting. “Let’s just keeping doing this, okay, or do you want to fuck me?”

He shakes his head. “Keep going.”

Clint straightens so he has better leverage and tightens his hand. The slick slide feels incredible, the contrast of his calloused palms and the softness of Phil’s cock almost too much. Phil’s hips twitch, jerky little movements, and his fingers squeeze and release Clint’s thighs, thumbs digging into the sensitive skin on their insides. He’s so gone, surrendering himself to Clint’s touch and the sensation it pulls out of him. 

He looks so beautiful that Clint’s heart aches.

He leans forward to nuzzle into Phil’s neck. “Can you come like this?”

“Think so,” he mumbles. “But not yet.”

“Wanna slow down?”

Phil lets out a long sigh, which is answer enough. Clint brings both his hands up next to Phil’s face, leaning on his elbows again, and kisses him. He eases his hips into a slow roll as Phil’s fingers skim over his back. They trade lazy kisses, tongues sweeping into mouths, sometimes just lips barely touching. 

It’s all light and easy for a while, but the slow slides along Phil’s cock wind Clint’s insides increasingly tighter until he’s so hard it borders on uncomfortable.

“Can’t hold on much longer,” Clint whispers into Phil’s collarbone.

“Let me?”

Clint nods and Phil’s hand nudges between them. Clint lifts up to give him room; he hisses when Phil’s fingers close around their heads.

“Too much?”

It takes Clint a moment to find his words, his hips already pressing forward, needing more of that pressure. “Perfect.” He’s useless now, only able to drop his head forward onto Phil’s shoulder as the tension twists and twists in tandem with Phil’s hand.

Phil shoves up against him, his cock twitching as he presses himself closer, and Clint knows that Phil’s so close. He bears down harder until Phil goes completely still underneath him. Come slides over the head of Clint’s dick, warm and impossibly slick. Clint sobs and his thighs start shaking. He keeps rutting into Phil’s fist until he can finally feel release curl up from his toes, slow at first, but then it slams into him. He gulps air into his lungs as he comes, and Phil’s rough strokes wring the last bit of pleasure out of him.

He presses a wet kiss to Phil’s clavicle before his legs give out and he barely manages to pitch to the side so he doesn’t collapse on top of Phil.

Phil turns toward him and slings an arm around him. They stay like that for long minutes, sweaty and exhausted. A cool breeze sweeps over them intermittently.

“Fuck, that A/C was worth every penny,” Clint mumbles. “I take back everything I said about us not needing the Lexus of air-conditioners.”

“Glad you’re coming around to it.” Phil wiggles closer. “Not sure I can move.”

“Hmm, jus’ go t’sleep.” Clint feels halfway there.

“That’d be nice for about an hour, and then I’d get up to use the bathroom, and all this gunk has gotten crusty. No, better take care of this right now. As soon as I can move.”

Even though Clint has no desire to use his legs again tonight, he pushes himself. “I’ll go.” He waves off Phil’s protest. “’s fine.” He climbs down the ladder and stretches on his way to the bathroom, certain that Phil is watching his ass the entire way. 

He cleans himself off and gets another washcloth for Phil. “D’you want some pajamas?” He throws the cloth into Phil’s direction. It hits his shoulder with a wet thwap.

“Argh,” Phil grouses. “And yes.”

“Hey, I need both hands for this next task.” He pulls on a fresh pair of briefs and grabs a T-shirt and boxers for Phil. He pulls up onto the third rung of the ladder, just high enough to take the cloth from Phil and hand him the clothes. It’s too bad the hamper is in the closet because Clint would have hit it from here without any problems. He walks there and back and can finally lie down next to Phil again.

**

When their alarm goes off the next morning, Clint hits the snooze button. And then hits it again. Usually, Phil would have herded both of them out of bed after the first snooze, but he seems in no mood to get up either. 

“We could call in sick,” he suggests. “Jasper still owes me from that time I worked double-shifts because he unexpectedly got tickets for some world pastry championship.”

Clint thinks about his schedule. There are no important meetings. All paperwork can wait until Monday. “Now that you mention it, I do feel a slight scratch in my throat.”

Phil hands Clint his phone and they both send brief emails. Then they go back to sleep for another two hours.

**

“Hey, you made brunch.” Clint sits down at the breakfast bar, pushing strands of wet hair out of his face.

“I made toaster waffles and sliced some fruit. The whipped cream is from a can.”

“Still.” Clint picks up his fork and digs in. “Better than granola. Thank you.”

A hint of pink shows on Phil’s cheeks. “You’re welcome.”

After breakfast, they sit on the couch. Clint catches up on the last three issues of _Outdoor Life_ while Phil reads more of his book.

Eventually, Phil gets up and straightens up a few things around the apartment. Unloads the dish washer. Changes the sheets on the bed. Swiffers the floor. Clint considers himself extraordinarily lucky to have found someone who finds chores relaxing. He still does his fair share, but enjoys it far less than Phil.

Once everything is put away, Phil joins Clint on the couch again. He sits close enough to pull Clint’s legs across his lap. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure.” Clint lowers his magazine. 

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about, but I wasn’t sure—” He halts. “When you asked me about moving in together yesterday, I said that I’d always want to hear what’s on your mind, and I think you probably feel the same way, so…”

Clint expected Phil to bring up the camping trip they’ve been talking about, or ideas for Clint’s birthday, but this seems far more serious. “What is it?”

Once Phil speaks again, the words tumble out of his mouth. “I’ve been thinking about us, and everything that’s happening in the country, and how, from the outside, there’s nothing really tying us together, there’s nothing protecting what we’ve built together. From a legal stand-point, at least.”

It hits Clint like a freight train. “You want to—to get married?” They’ve always agreed that marriage wasn’t for them. It’s something they talked about even before they really knew they were in it for the long haul.

Conflicted emotions wash over Phil’s face. “Not necessarily. I still don’t…” His mouth twists. “I know we’ve said that we’d never get married. But I keep thinking…what if something happens to one of us, like when you slipped off a bridge beam last year and hurt your shoulder or when I got shot, or something worse, and there is no legal protection of us, of our relationship?”

Phil looks so worried. Clint takes his hand between both of his and waits, sure that there is more.

“And if anything ever happened to me, you’d have no claim to my pension. Or me to yours. And Jen and Mark want us to be guardians for Max and Eric in case something happens to them, but legally, there’s nothing that recognizes who we are to each other, and—sometimes, that scares the shit out of me, Clint. Who knows what’ll happen, and I want there to be some protection for what we have.” 

Clint is stunned. He looks down at Phil’s hand, now tightly entwined with this, as if they both need something to hold on to.

Everything Phil said makes sense. He’s right. And that throws so many things in which Clint has believed for a long time into question, including the whole “marriage, no way” thing, because marriage always seemed like a surrender to conformity. But the way Phil puts it now, it feels more like a defiant way to ensure no one can mess with the life they have built together. And fuck anyone who would try. It makes Clint furious to think that there might be a situation in which someone denied him access to Phil, or to anything that’s theirs, or that Clint isn’t an equally important person to Eric and Max as Phil. And yet, Clint also knows that his anger isn’t enough in the eyes of the law.

He realizes Phil is waiting for a response. “I need some time to think about this. But I agree. That we should do something.”

Phil looks relieved. “Of course. That’s where I get stuck, too. Wanting to make sure that what we have is as safe as possible, and what options we have.”

“There’s domestic partnership, too, right?”

Phil nods. “Or we could draft our own legal documents. But that’s expensive, and not as airtight as marriage.”

Clint slumps back against the cushions. “Figures.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes until Phil gently extricates himself from Clint’s legs and sits on the edge of the couch. “We’re almost out of milk, so I’ll just hit the bodega and—“

Clint reaches for his wrist. “No, don’t. I mean, can you do that later?”

“I just wanted to give you some space to think.”

“I’d rather you stay. Sit with me? Closer, I mean?”

Phil twists around to lean against his chest, and Clint wraps his arms around Phil, profoundly glad they got the extra-wide couch last year. He closes his eyes to quiet his thoughts, which are dashing through his brain like a mob of wild rabbits. He can feel the tension in Phil as well.  
“Breathe,” Clint says.

“Easier said than done.”

Clint nuzzles the soft hair on top of Phil’s head. “We’re okay.”

“Are we?”

“Yes.”

Phil exhales shakily. “I should have said something sooner, but I was afraid that you’d—be angry, or that you’d think I’m turning my back on some fundamental part of our relationship, or—”

“I’m not upset. If anything, I’m kinda mad at myself for never having thought of this before.”

“Pondering worst-case scenarios for one’s life isn’t the healthiest line of thought, so I’m glad it hadn’t occurred to you.”

“It’s important, though. To be prepared.” 

“If you have any questions about our options, I’ve done some research.”

If Phil says ‘some research,’ he means, ‘I have exhaustively looked into this subject.’ Clint holds him tighter. “Jesus, how long have you been thinking about this?”

“A while.”

That’s a very cagey answer. “Okay, but, I know we’re still not the best at talking about stuff, but that’s way too much to keep to yourself and worry about, so thank fuck you finally said something. Geez, Phil.”

Phil turns enough to wrap an arm around Clint. “Love you.”

Clint slides down enough to be face-to-face with Phil, who looks shaky and out of sorts. Clint assures him the best way he knows: by kissing the breath out of him.

**

The weekend is both normal and weird: they do all their usual weekend things, but tension runs underneath all of them. On Sunday afternoon, Phil makes rhubarb crumble. As Phil cuts rhubarb and butter and measures flour and finally slides the dish into the oven, Clint decides enough is enough. They’ve gone over all of Phil’s research, and weighed all their options. In the end, it all comes back to the first thoughts Clint had when Phil brought this up: fuck everyone who tries to mess with them. In order to do that, they need the best possible defense, even if that’s something Clint dismissed for most of his life.

He walks up to Phil, who is setting the timer for the crumble on his phone. “Let’s do this.”

“Do what?” Phil asks, not entirely paying attention.

“Get married.”

Phil nearly drops his phone.

“But let’s do it right. Invite people. And maybe have a party on the roof.”

Phil kisses him in a weird uncoordinated way because he’s also smiling. “And cake?”

“Duh, of course there’ll be cake.”

“Fuck.”

Clint smirks. “Well, hopefully, that’ll come after the wedding.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “But in all seriousness, are you sure?”

“Are _you_ sure?”

It’s easy to see in his eyes. “I am.”

Clint feels jittery all over. “Holy shit, we’re really doing this, huh?”

“Apparently so.” Phil sounds happy.

“I need to call Nat.”

“We should call Jen, too. And my parents. Unless you’d rather wait a while, just to be—”

Clint bounces on the balls of his feet. “No, let’s tell them now. Let’s tell everyone.”


End file.
